“I know.”
That did draw a faint breath from him. Not quite laughter. Not quite sorrow.
Aingeal let it fade before she spoke again. “But I was there,” she said. “And I saw it. I saw the moment he tried to make you what you had been. I saw him put Canterbury in your hand like a blade.”
Reginald’s eyes darkened.
“And I saw you refuse it.”
His breathing changed.
“That matters to me,” she said. “Not enough to make the hurt vanish. But enough that something in me trusted you before I had time to decide whether I should.”
His lips parted, but no words came.
Aingeal looked toward the yard, where the gate still stood because too many people had refused to let it fall.
“I thought needing someone made me weak,” she said. “I thought wanting to be chosen made me foolish. Dangerous. I thought love was a thing that could turn me into the worst part of myself if I let it too near.” She looked back at him. “Today I needed you.”
Reginald went utterly still.
“I needed you in the hall. At the gate. On the wall.” Her voice lowered. “And not only because you can fight. Not only because you see a battlefield more clearly than any man I know.” She swallowed. “I needed you because when everything broke open, I looked for you. I trusted that if you could stand, you would stand with me.”
His face changed, slowly, as if hope were painful to receive. “Aingeal,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“I love you,” she said. The words came out with no softness to hide behind. Only truth.
His eyes closed.
For one terrible heartbeat, she thought she had wounded him.
Then he bowed his head, and when he lifted it again, the look on his face made her breath catch. Love so plain it seemed almost holy in the rain-dim light.
“I love you,” he said. “God help me, I love you more than I have ever deserved to love anything.”
She reached for him then, taking his hand into hers.
His fingers closed around hers with such reverence that the small touch felt as solemn as any oath.
“I do not want a love built on deserving,” she said. “I want one built on truth.”
“You will have it.”
“And choice.”
“Yes.”
“And staying.”
His hand tightened around hers. “I will stay,” he said. “Not as penance. Not because I think serving you washes me clean. Not because I have nowhere else to go.” His voice lowered. “I will stay because I choose you. Because I choose this place. Because I choose the life that asks me to be better and then gives me the chance to prove it.”
Aingeal’s eyes burned.
“And when I fail?” he asked quietly, because even now he would not give her a vow dressed in false perfection.
“Then you will tell me the truth.”
“Yes.”
